


what's the point of a clear raincoat with no hood?

by CarnivalGoldfish



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Anal Sex, I am a little ashamed of myself, Infinity Wars didn't happen, M/M, Peter is 18, Peter is a Little Shit, Phone Sex, Sugar Daddy Tony Stark, aged-up Peter, get-together, snark and smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-10
Updated: 2018-11-10
Packaged: 2019-08-21 14:59:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16578728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CarnivalGoldfish/pseuds/CarnivalGoldfish
Summary: Tony buys Peter clothes because he likes Peter wearing what he bought him. Peter realizes this is not normal.





	what's the point of a clear raincoat with no hood?

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone. This is the first fic I've written in a long, long time, and it's my first Starker. 
> 
> I really feel like there needs to be a tag for Get-Together fics, so I'm making one. Hope you all enjoy some smut.

He never thought he would wind up here.

His hands gripping the beveled edges of Mr. Stark’s shatter-proof glass desk, clear PVC up around his waist, his breaths coming in short, heavy bursts as the man’s cock takes him apart. His back is arched in a way that would’ve been painful if it didn’t bring him closer to the release he was so desperately seeking. His knees feel like they might buckle if the man hits him just right one more time. He lets out a cry of alarm when Mr. Stark grips his hip hard enough to bruise.

“Like that, don’t you?”

It’s hissed into the air, and Peter hears himself groan in response. His legs are shaking. He doesn’t remember how to breathe, not with the hard edge of that desk digging into his stomach, not with such a big piece inside him.

“Say it. Say this is all mine.” Mr. Stark is breathless, but the command is as sure as any he’s ever given him.

He wants to say he can barely think, let alone string words together. But a hand comes down, firm and merciless, spanking his left asscheek and leaving it stinging.

“ _Say it_.”

 

\--

 

If he’s being honest, it had started six months ago, on his eighteenth birthday.

He wasn’t big on birthdays, not since parties tended to involve more people than he was comfortable being around at any given time. Aunt May had long ago given up the dream of a big celebration, and instead opted for the pizza-with-select-friends approach. Of course, this year she made the fatal mistake of inviting Tony Stark.

Tony’s response was something along the lines of “Wait, it’s his birthday?”

Plans went from pizza-with-select-friends to being whisked away from school to Stark Tower, where a helicopter swept him up and flew him to a very fancy hotel with a restaurant called _Luis_. The place had a nine course tasting menu and a strict jacket policy that they were apparently willing to ignore for the sake of Tony Stark’s ‘honored guest’. Inside Natasha, Clint, Thor, Happy, and several of the lab techs who had gotten to know him pretty well since his ‘internship’ had started were there to greet him. And in the center of it all was Tony, wearing a rich-looking suit and a pair of smart glasses, which he was using to talk to Pepper.

“Yeah, I know I said I’d be there, but it’s his birthday. He’s turning eighteen… Yeah. Yeah. Well, I’m still in town, I can meet with him and get his fucking signature tomorrow. Hang on—” He was saying as Peter walked in. He got up and immediately came over to wrap his arms around him in a hug.

God, he smelled good.

Peter closed his eyes and just breathed him in, clapping his arms around him, trying to keep it ‘bro’. But he smelled faintly of expensive cologne and salt water shampoo. His breath tasted like ginger ale.

“How’s it feel to be a man?” Tony asked, pulling back from the hug, his hand clapping to Peter’s shoulder, leading him to the table.

“Like every other day, I mean…” Peter started, then trailed off as he realized he didn’t have much to say on the matter. Being close to Mr. Stark made it hard to think sometimes. “Good, I guess.”

“Good.” Tony said, his lips taking on a faint smile shape. He rarely really smiled. But the more time he spent in Peter’s presence, the happier he seemed. At least to Peter.

It was one thing to idolize your mentor, and another thing entirely to harbor a crush so massive it had its own gravitational pull. He’d thought Tony Stark was the sexiest man alive before he’d met him (and had, in fact, voted him such in several online polls), and now, knowing him, working with him every day, it had only gotten worse. Not only was he a sexy older man with a brilliant mind and a tinkerer’s touch, he was funny as hell, and he had amazing taste in music, and when they were in the lab together it was more comfortable than his own home. He would be doing just fine, thanks, idolizing him from afar. But the man _just kept touching him_ , and every time he did, Peter melted just a little more.

Seeing him smile, even this much, made his heart thump.

Tony guided him to the table, where Natasha gave him a kiss on the cheek and Thor wrapped him in a giant bear hug. The gathering was jovial. Tony stayed by his side and told stories of their adventures in the lab, making him laugh and go flustered in turns. When they wheeled the birthday cake out, it was a four-tier monstrosity with sparkler candles on top. It took three tries to blow all the candles out.

Then Tony had leaned over and whispered in his ear, “What’d you wish for?”

Flustered, Peter turned away and stabbed his fork into his slice of cake. “A change, I guess.” He’d said then, and like a naïve fool, assumed that would be the end of it.

 

\--

 

The present arrived at his apartment the next day.

It was hand-delivered, and Aunt May had to sign two separate agreements before accepting it. It came in a slim box, wrapped in silver paper with red ribbon webbed like a spider’s web over the top in a classy touch that made Peter bite the inside of his mouth to keep the laughter at bay. Inside was a StarkDesign Engineering Tablet with 3-D design capability and nanoengineering software that was not even supposed to be on the market. The color, noted on the box, was ‘Webslinger Red’.

He didn’t think he’d ever hold something so valuable in the _lab_ , let alone in his own home. His hands shook as he powered it up, staring at the clean, utterly seamless graphics. After a moment of enchantment, he set it back in its box, humbled and utterly terrified of breaking what was probably a priceless, one-of-a-kind piece of tech.

He didn’t need the note to know who it was from. But he opened it anyway.

_Peter,_

_Headed to an undisclosed locale for a meeting I can’t talk about. So I’ll be out of touch for a few days._

_Keep working on your ideas while I’m gone. If they’re any good, this software will make them excellent. I’ll see you back in the lab when all the business crap is over._

_Happy Birthday, Kiddo_

_Stark_

He pulled it to his nose and breathed in the faintest scent of Mr. Stark’s cologne. Then he grabbed his phone and texted Ned. _OMG get over here you’re not gonna believe this._

 

\--

 

The next time Peter saw Mr. Stark, he was expecting to thank him for the tablet, not be fitted for a brand new suit.

A new Spiderman suit? Maybe. Tony apparently loved designing those in his insomnia hours, and he was always playing with new combinations of nanotech, so it wasn’t uncommon for Peter to come into the lab and be immediately dragged over to the test platform. But no. That day, Peter walked into Stark Tower and was immediately ushered upstairs to Tony’s office, where Tony was waiting with a tailor whose Stark Industries security pass just read “Ignazio”, and whom apparently only spoke Italian.

“You’re early. Nobody likes an eager beaver, you know. This is why the other interns give you dirty looks.” Tony said as he walked in, his arms pulling up over his head as he checked himself out in a mirror that hadn’t been there the last time Peter had been invited up.

“Um…” Peter swallowed, looking away as Tony stretched, ensuring the fit of his shirt. “Yeah, I think that might actually be because you keep dragging me around for super-secret projects.”

“Are you saying it’s my fault?” Tony scoffed, his hands working the buttons of the shirt undone. He flung it off effortlessly, leaving himself in a tank top that clung to his skin in ways that would remain in Peter’s brain his entire life, he was sure. He then proceeded to speak in Italian to the tailor at his side, his voice pouring the words like hot butter directly down Peter’s spine.

The tailor responded. Tony responded to that. They went back and forth, Tony pulling the shirt forward, stretching it out, showing him— _too tight? Too loose?—_ and Peter’s body throbbed every time something unintelligible came out of his mouth.

Ignazio took the shirt and set it aside, handing Tony another, which looked nearly identical. Then he turned his eyes to Peter, and Peter swallowed hard.

“Okay.” Tony said with a snap of his fingers. And suddenly, his stare was cutting right to Peter. “Your turn.”

Peter’s eyes bugged a little. He stared at Tony, even as Ignazio laid a weathered hand on his shoulder and led him right to the place Tony had occupied a moment ago. Tony, for his part, was headed to the wave-shaped couch that took up most of the seating space in the office. He flopped down on it, kicking his bare feet up on the table.

He looked so good like that. Stretched out. Comfortable. Not lazy, no, his mind was still churning, he could see it in his eyes. But comfortable.

“Mr. Stark, I—I just wanted to thank you for the—I mean, i-is this really necessary?” He managed as the tailor casually moved his limbs, measuring with the deftness of a professional.

“You need a suit for this weekend, right?” Tony said more than asked, casual as all fuck. His eyes were watching intently, as though this display was performance art.

“This weekend? I—Mr. Stark, what’s this weekend?”

“Oh. Paris.”

“ _Paris_?”

Peter’s eyes bugged. Tony frowned, looking a little bewildered. “Yeah, you know, big United Science Conference, that whole…” He waved it off. “I told you. Right? Oh, well, never mind. Paris. You need a suit.”

“… Oh.” Peter said, his mind sort of boggling, because Paris, holy shit, how could he possibly, but _Paris_ , and Ned was going to lose his _mind_.

“And one of these.” Tony said, and tossed him a little bit of metal.

He caught it and looked down. “… Is this watch _Versace?_ ”

“Yeah, it’ll do for a start.”

“This is… a very expensive wrist weight.”

“What’re you talking about?” Tony asked, his lips just barely quirked in challenge.

“You know, there are these things called cellphones…”

“You’re eighteen. Learn to tell time like a big boy.”

“There’s not even any numbers on here, it’s like, you know, a really flamboyant sun dial or something.”

“Sun dials don’t work at night. C’mon, put it on, it looks smart.”

“You know, I’m glad you gave me this, because watches are going to be extinct by the time your generation dies out, so this’ll probably have some value on the antiques market.”

He slid it on. It was all cool metal, the back of the face heavy on his wrist, etched with the Versace logo image. He looked down on it, feeling sort of dorky and ridiculous. But also really pleased. Really stupid pleased.

He was grinning. And when he looked up, Mr. Stark was grinning too. Just for a second.

 

\--

 

Paris was ri _donk_ ulous.

It was supposed to be a weekend, but because Peter had never been to Paris and Tony liked the coffee, they wound up staying a week.

 They saw all the major attractions, and Peter was an unabashed tourist about it. He took pictures of everything—the tower, the museums, the view from the balcony of his room (because holy _shit_ this was some epic Instagram stuff)—but especially Tony. He took lots of pictures of Tony.

He’d never seen Tony smile so much. Even while he was calling him tourist trash.

“What the hell are you taking pictures of now?”

“The bakery across the street.”

“The bakery across the street.” Tony repeated.

“Well, yeah, it’s like a freaking post-card, like, seriously, Aunt May’s gonna lose her mind.” Peter was saying as he snapped another.

Tony let out a scoffing puff of air, paging through the racks of sweaters. They were in an upscale place and the staff treated Mr. Stark like he was the end-all be-all. They were fluttering around the sales floor, just sort of hanging around like pigeons on the sidewalk, flapping a few meters away whenever Tony got too close. But watching. They were definitely watching for any sign Tony Stark might drop some breadcrumbs.

“Hey, get over here, kiddo.”

“Yeah, Mr. Stark?”

He was eager. Tony had been so great at the expo, talking him up to all the nanotechnologists and molecular biologists and tech science gurus, making him seem like some kind of prodigy or something. He met people he’d only ever read about, and they all sort of respected him already because Tony had told him he was _his best intern_ and _exceptional_ and _a really bright kid_.

“Come try this on.” He said and held up a freaking ridiculous sweater.

Like, it was trying _so hard_ , this very hip merlot sweater. And when he put it on it was just _worse_ , this sort of futuristic mock-turtleneck thing that was ribbed and clingy, stuck-to-the-skin wool with a zipper that went from the side of the neck down the shoulder and did absolutely nothing helpful. He came out of the dressing room in his jeans and this sweater and held out his hands like _‘welp’._

And Tony just stood there, arms crossed over his chest, looking him from top to bottom and back again.

“Yep. That one.” He said finally, and Peter dropped his hands and said “You can’t be serious.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“Well, first of all, before I put it on I had no idea what the zip thing was for, like, I thought it might be in case I grew an extra head or something.”

“Oh, c’mon, it’s edgy.”

“No, it’s like old-guy sci-fi villain from a Star Trek episode or something, but like when you put it on you find out you need the zipper as like a back-up escape plan because the turtleneck is going to strangle you, it’s so tight.”

“Yeah, it’s so tight it looks expensive.” Tony said, motioning to the mirror. “Now we need pants.” He said, snapping his fingers and causing the sales staff to scatter.

“Mr. Stark, I do _not_ need new pants.”

“Um… yeah.” Tony said, reaching up and putting a hand out to block his own view of Peter’s pants. “Paris.” He said, then slid it up to block his view of the shirt. “Queens.” He repeated the motion a couple of times. “Paris. Queens. See where I’m going with this? Yeah. Back in the dressing room, Parker.”

He wound up with pants that looked as, um, _expensive_ as the shirt.

He left the store wearing them, and tried not to think about the butterflies it gave him.

 

\--

 

That did not, in fact, stop him from jerking off in the stupid sweater later that night in the hotel, zipper zipped all the way, feeling claimed as surely as if he was collared.

It should be noted that he still thought this was normal.

 

\--

 

They came back from Paris and he went back to Aunt May’s and things returned to their regular pace after a short period of him showing his pictures to literally everyone he knew. Ned was impressed, MJ told him she’d already seen them on his Insta, and “Wow, Parker, can’t not talk about Tony Stark for more than five minutes, can you?”

Which, to be fair, was something he found very difficult.

He kept the sweater but he never wore it. He was pretty sure Mr. Stark didn’t notice or care. He just kept it bunched up on his bed like a pillow, and when he wanted to… remember how he felt that day, he put it on.

He worked in the lab, playing with nanotech, and generally growing more confident with it by the day. Mr. Stark, for his part, seemed to be begrudgingly impressed. As usual.

He came in one day, and Tony looked up from the latest design he was working on to grin at him over the grid. “Hey, kiddo, how’s it hangin’?”

“Better with the new web formula, thanks for that.” Peter said, swinging into his favorite lab chair and rolling over to see what was on the grid. “What’s on the docket today?”

“Just a few tests on the bio-tech. I was about to take a break, actually.” He said, turning off the grid before he could get a clear look. “Hungry?”

“Always.” Peter answered, because he was eighteen, and never not starving. Tony ordered Thai food and they worked in relative silence, Tony on his grid and Peter on a block of code that needed to be debugged for the next phase of his suit’s automation. It was only when the food arrived that things got weird.

The assistant who brought up the food didn’t _just_ bring up the food. She brought up bags, boxes, all filled with clothes. She set them all down by Peter’s station and Tony immediately jumped up to grab his pad see ew.

“Um…” Peter started, and Tony cracked his chopsticks, using them to stir his Styrofoam bowl.

“Oh, I sent her out to get some stuff I ordered for you.” Tony said, waving his chopsticks. “Go ahead, check it out.”

Some stuff. Like fucking Tom Ford sunglasses and cashmere-lined gloves. Like five pairs of Alexander McQueen wool argyle socks. Two belts. Three pairs of jeans—one dark denim, one hunter green, and one distressed black—and one pair of dress slacks. A pair of Adidas sneakers and a pair of winter boots. Three t-shirts, two button-downs, two tank-tops, and another fucking watch, this one Gucci.

The more he unpacked, the more his heart raced, and his face flushed, and his hands shook.

And Tony just sat there, slurping his noodles, watching ever so intently. Like he hadn’t just fucking filled his closet. Like he hadn’t just dropped more money on him than he could even calculate.

He didn’t know whether to be frustrated, aroused, or both.

“Wow, Mr. Stark.” He said, pulling out the shirts and going through them one by one.

Tony crunched a piece of broccoli and smiled. “Yeah, yeah.” He said, as if he knew just what Peter was about to say.

“You must, like, I dunno. Really like dressing me up or something.”

The sound Tony made when he choked on that hunk of broccoli was priceless.

 

\--

 

He wore the black jeans and one of the t-shirts to the lab the next day and they fit him like they were made for him, which he suspected they were.

When Tony came in and saw the jeans under his labcoat, he snapped his fingers and said “Hey, lemme see.”

Peter rolled his eyes, taking off the lab coat and showing off the gifts the man had given him. “I mean, not that I’m not grateful Mr. Stark, ‘cause I am, but… like… this outfit is probably worth more than Aunt May pays in rent every month.”

“Well, yeah, but it pays to look that good.” Tony said, his eyes sliding down Peter’s form, taking in his shirt, his jeans, his sneakers. “Look at you.” He murmured, and reached out to ever-so-gently adjust the hem of that tee so that he could see the thin black leather belt fed through the loops in those jeans.

His touch grazed Peter’s hip. He looked up and found him staring.

His heart started pounding a little harder. Something behind Tony’s eyes was making his stomach clench. It was also making his new jeans a little tight.

He licked his lips. “You know, you bought me everything I’m wearing except my underwear.” He blurted.

Tony’s eyes widened. He cleared his throat, fingers snatching away from Peter’s hip. “Well… I mean, yeah, you earned it, Kiddo.”

He turned away and headed back to the grid he was working on, and Peter felt his pulse rushing like he’d just had a fright.

 

\--

 

When he got back to the apartment two days later, there was a package waiting for him in the kitchen.

His heart thudded. He had a strong suspicion as to what it might be, but if it was what he thought it was, he had no idea what he was going to do. He took it into his bedroom and tore open the black, sealed wrapping with trembling fingers.

Eight pairs of boxer-briefs, in blue, black, grey and red. They all had the same elastic band, printed with webbing like his spider-suit. They were an easy, stretchy sort of cotton, the kind that would breathe nicely, and he couldn’t figure out whether these were made by a designer or designed by Tony Stark himself.

The very idea of it was enough to get him a little hard.

He took off his clothes and stared at the sets in front of him. The blue ones were the loudest. They had the most brilliant color. He pulled a pair on and moved around in them, half delighting in the way they clung to him. He looked in the mirror and found them fitting in ways that should be criminal.

After about an hour of pacing, trying on another pair, pacing some more, and putting the first pair back on, he did the only thing he could think to do.

He grabbed the black jeans he’d tossed on the floor and pulled them on to just below the waistband of those boxer-briefs, letting them hang open to show a wink of their bold blue color. Then he grabbed his phone and took a selfie from the waist down.

He sent it to Tony with a _Thanks Mr. Stark!_

 

\--

 

After the message was sent, Peter spent most of the rest of the night in a sleepless fit of anxiety.

It was only at one in the morning when Tony texted back _You’re welcome, kiddo_ , that he breathed a bit easier, curling up next to his phone and closing his eyes.

It should be noted that, by then, Peter had realized this was not normal.

 

\--

 

Saturday passed without incident. He stayed home. Aunt May worked. He played video games and tried not to look at his phone.

He’d crossed a line last night, and he knew it. Tony may have been gracious enough to let him off the hook, but that didn’t mean he was going to forget it. He wasn’t stupid. He had to know Peter wasn’t just offering his thanks, not with a provocative picture like that. He’d be lucky if he still had his ‘internship’ come Monday. Let alone anything else.

Then at around eleven that evening, his phone (which he’d been trying to ignore all day) buzzed with a text from Mr. Stark.

_Show me the red ones_

The pixelated words almost didn’t look real on his screen. He stared at them, eyes wide and straining in the dark, his heart suddenly beating triple time.

The red ones. Right. There were red ones.

He pushed out of bed, groping around in the dark for his lamp switch. Once the light was on, he went to his underwear drawer, where he’d stashed the boxer-briefs in his anxiety-induced shame the night before.

The red ones were underneath the rest, and he dug for a pair, pulling them out by their waistband. He tugged them on, then the jeans from yesterday, and left them open the same way to take the selfie the way he had before.

He sent it without anything else, staring at the screen as it went, his heart thudding, everything in him a fucking mess.

He watched it send, then dropped his phone to his bed, pacing, because _what the actual fuck is he doing?_

His phone buzzed a moment later, and he lunged for it, impatient.

_Show me more_

He swallowed. Was this for real?

He tugged the waist of his jeans down past his hips, letting one side fall open to expose him down to the thigh. He pulled the other side up to partially cover his front, and took a picture from the side, trying not to make it too explicit.

He sent it and pulled up the pants, trying to ease his own panic. It didn’t really work. Flopping back on his bed, he stared at the ceiling, knowing that doing anything else would be impossible while he waited for that phone to buzz.

It buzzed before he was prepared for it, and he jolted a bit as it went off in his hand.

_Show me how they fit_

He breathed in, then breathed out, his eyes squeezing shut. There was no mistaking that request.

He pushed the jeans down, sliding out of bed and heading for his mirror. He turned and pulled up his selfie cam, then began the painstaking process of finding an angle that showed both his front and his backside’s reflection.

Once he finally had the right picture, he sent it and went back to his bed, where he laid down and bit his lower lip, trying not to think about what was going to happen next. He didn’t know. That was the truth. He had no fucking idea, and it was terrifying, and right now he was just trusting that it was really Tony Stark on the other end of those texts and trying not to freak out.

The next text came just as he was starting to really worry.

_They look good on you, kiddo_

He breathed out softly, closing his eyes in relief. After a second’s indecision, he opened his cam again and took another picture, this one of his body from the waist down, his legs crossed at the ankles, his briefs a little tented because he’s nervous and excited and his body is a slut for Mr. Stark’s praise. He sends it with the caption, _They’re really comfy_ , and finds himself grinning at the whole thing, because he can’t help thinking about what Tony’s doing with those pictures.

The very thought has his blood growing hot.

His phone buzzed again.

_Are you wearing the McQueen socks too?_

He looked down at his feet. He was, in fact. Their argyle length stretched up to his calves, grey and purple with little skulls. He flexed his toes and texted back _Yeah why?_

For a minute or so, there’s no response. Then his phone actually starts to ring.

He nearly jumps out of his skin at the sound of it, his heart pounding in his ears when he sees that, yes, it is Mr. Stark calling him. He breathes in and answers it on the second ring, his voice just barely croaking out a soft “Mr. Stark?”

“ _Parker.”_

Tony’s voice makes his breath catch. He holds it for a second, closing his eyes and letting the sound of the man’s faint breath over the line wash over him. “Yes, Mr. Stark?” He asks, his own voice trembling. His cock is hard instantly. It’s fucking unfair.

_“The other day, when you said I must like dressing you up? I do.”_

He breathed out, his eyes squeezing shut tight because he can _hear_ the wet sounds of slick skin on skin, he can _hear_ the heaviness of his breath. “You do?” Is all he can think to say.

 _“I like putting you in nice things.”_ He whispered, sounding breathless. _“I like seeing you wear those clothes, I like taking you out and showing you off. It gets me hard, seeing you wear what I give you.”_

Peter’s mouth dropped open. His cock twitched, pained, wanting to be touched as Tony’s voice grew more desperate by the second.

_“The fucking watch. The fucking suit.”_

Peter let out a soft groan, biting into his lower lip.

_“When you sent me that picture the other night I think I lost most of my brain through my cock.”_

He bit harder, his hand reaching down to palm his erection through his underwear. “I… I like it too. I really, really like it.”

_“Swear to God, you in those red ones and the socks…”_

“Mr. Stark…” He groaned, rolling over onto his side.

 _“Fuck-!_ ” He heard him gasp the word, and knew, in the pit of his stomach, that he had come.

It was the most maddening feeling he had ever felt, and he was not unused to maddening feelings where Mr. Stark was concerned.

There was nothing but breathing over the line for a moment or two. It was making him crazy, listening to it. His heart pounded hard in his chest, and he wanted desperately to touch himself, to let himself go. But he didn’t know what he was allowed anymore, and he didn’t know how to feel.

 _“… Peter_?” Came Tony’s most breathless concerned voice ever.

“I-I’m still here, Mr. Stark.” He stuttered quickly, trembling a little, still palming his own erection, hungry for the sound of his voice.

 _“Oh. Okay. Good.”_ Tony said, clearing his throat, his voice sounding warm and languid and fucked. It made Peter’s breath catch. _“Yeah… I… I’ll see you on Monday.”_

“Uh-huh.” Peter managed, his body trembling, his heart thumping in his chest.

 _“You… those red ones really do look good on you_.”

“Thanks Mr. Stark.” He said, as though on autopilot.

He hung up before Tony could say anything else to break his heart. And spent the night masturbating into those briefs, remembering the sound of Tony losing it over the phone.

 

\--

 

On Monday, Tony Stark acted as though nothing had changed.

He was still intent on his nanotech, still pleased to see Peter, but it was as though Saturday night had happened in an alternate reality. He barely met his eyes over their respective projects, and when Peter took his lab coat off to reveal his hunter green jeans and one of the button-downs from the pair he gave him, he excused himself to a late lunch meeting.

It was strange and infuriating and absolutely Tony Stark.

By the time the day was over, Peter thought that was the end of it. That maybe, perhaps, Tony had decided their foray into dangerous territory had gone a couple of steps too far. And then he got home and found the package waiting for him on the kitchen table.

He grabbed it and rushed into his bedroom, shutting and locking the door, his heart pounding hard in his chest.

Tony.

He opened it and pulled out boxers— full boxers in that red with the webbing all over them instead of just on the waistband—a new red belt, a pair of faded-on-purpose jeans, and a plain white t-shirt with a front pocket. Each new item was reverently placed on the bed, and he stared at them all, half-wondering if he should pretend they didn’t exist.

It would serve Tony right. But it wouldn’t do him any good.

He put on the boxers, slid the belt through the loops of the jeans and tugged them on, checking their snug fit in his mirror. Then he pulled the shirt on and grabbed his phone, taking two pictures—one of his reflection in the mirror, and one a selfie with a close-up of the waistband of those boxers.

Then, because he was frustrated, he decided to take more.

He took off the shirt and snapped one. He pulled the belt loose and snapped one. He wrapped the belt around his neck like a leash and snapped one. He sent them all in quick succession and then flopped back onto the bed, dropping his phone on the bedside table.

Ten minutes later, it started to buzz.

He steeled himself. Breathing in, then out, he answered the call with a soft “Mr. Stark?”

_“Jesus Fuck, Kiddo.”_

His breath caught at the sound of his voice, the intensity of it. He bit his lower lip and tried to steady himself. “Um, I’m not sure now’s the time you want to call me Kiddo.”

 _“Peter…”_ His voice was ragged. He was touching himself again. The very thought of it sent his heart through the roof. _“You have no idea what you did to me with that shit.”_

Blowing out a breath, he pressed his head back to the pillows and closed his eyes. “What did I do, Mr. Stark? Make you horny?” He asked, his voice going soft and hungry, tainted with the desperation of the last few days. “Make you hard? Like you’ve done to me every day since the day I met you?”

“ _Shit, Parker, please…”_ Tony begged, though what for he had no idea.

Peter let out a soft, slightly insane laugh. “What do you want? You want me to jerk myself off for you? You wanna hear me come in these boxers you gave me, Mr. Stark?”

_“Yeah. Yes. Please, Peter…”_

Chewing on his lower lip, he reached over to his nightstand drawer and got out a small bottle of lube that he had managed to hide from Aunt May. He popped the cap and slicked his and, then pulled up the waistband of those boxers. “God, Mr. Stark, it feels so good.” He whispered, his hand gripping his shaft inside those shorts.

 _“That’s it, Pete, that’s it…_ ” Tony was murmuring breathlessly into the phone, the sound of slick skin on skin just barely audible. _“Tell me how you like the belt I gave you, wrapped around your throat.”_

“Fucking fantastic.” Peter gasped, his hand working his stiffness, knowing he can’t hold out with Tony listening, so trying to keep the pace slow. “I keep thinking about you tugging it. Choking me. Using it to pull me along or rein me while I ride you.”

 _“Shit…”_ Tony hisses, and Peter can just hear him groan. That got to him. His cock is throbbing in his hand just thinking about it. _“Gonna hold you with it while I take your ass… Gonna take your ass… Fuck-!”_

“Please, Tony!” Peter begged breathlessly, the image of it making it impossible to keep himself in check. “Fuck, please take my ass, please, oh fucking—”

_“That’s right, Pete, I’m gonna take your tight little ass and fuck you ‘til you’re crying.”_

“Mr. Stark!” He let out a groan, biting his lip, trying so hard not to let go too soon. “Please, fucking take me, fill my ass, come inside me Mr. Stark, please!”

He let go then. His body rocked into his grip, his hand squeezing at his cock as he spilled heavy shots of need into those shorts and everything felt like heaven. He heard Tony lose it seconds later, a soft, choked off groan, ending in a long, happy moan of release. It’s one of the most beautiful sounds he’d ever heard.

 

\--

 

 He came to Stark Tower on Tuesday, dressed in the dark jeans and the white t-shirt from the night before. Tony pretended not to notice.

It was absolute agony.

The work went on, the world continued to turn, and as the biotech tests were left for their observation period and Tony grew antsy, Peter followed him up to his office, listening to him chat about the advances they’re going to make as soon as they know why the hell this particular particle doesn’t react well with that particular particle. It would all be very fascinating if he didn’t have other questions on his mind.

“Awe, crap, is it raining?” Tony said the minute he entered his office and saw the dark skies and water driving against his floor-to-ceiling windows. “FRIDAY, add a raincoat to that order. The Bailey should be fine.”

 _“Yes, Sir._ ” FRIDAY answered.

“What’re you ordering?” Peter asked, though he had a feeling he knew. His stomach gave a little lurch.

“Oh, I figured I’d get you a couple of things and we could go get dinner or something.” Tony said, all casual and cool, but very definitely not looking at him the way he wanted to.

“… Or something.” Peter said, taking in the words, trying to decode them.

“Yeah, you know. Just… Pizza. Or something. You tell me, Kiddo, what’d’you want?”

 _Oh,_ he wanted to throw a tantrum.

Instead, he waited. He waited with Tony for twenty minutes while the monitors above his desk flashed news reports from all over the globe. He was glad there had been no major catastrophes this month, considering. Perhaps that’s why Tony had initiated this. He was bored. He wanted some excitement. What better way to relieve tension than to bait his impressionable young intern into fooling around over the phone every once in a while?

“Something wrong?” Tony asked from somewhere behind him, but before he could answer, one of the assistants came in with a department store bag. She left it in a rush, and Peter got the distinct impression that his mood was making the room uninhabitable.

He let out an aggravated sigh and grabbed the bag. “I’ll just go change then.” He said, and carried it into the powder room, where he locked the door and dumped the contents onto the floor, wanting to cry.

Pants. A sweater. A beanie with an Adidas logo. A new pair of McQueen socks.

And the most ridiculous fucking raincoat he’s ever seen.

It’s clear PVC. But it’s got black tubing so that every sewn-together part is outlined entirely in a cartoonish black line. The pockets are completely clear, and oversized. It has no hood. What’s the point of a clear raincoat with no hood?

_“It gets me hard, seeing you wear what I give you.”_

His stomach does a little twist at the memory.

It is, in his opinion, the dumbest thing you could ever possibly wear out in the rain, except perhaps nothing.

Which is when he gets his stupid, stupid idea.

Ten minutes later, he emerges from the bathroom, and when Tony looks up to assess what is apparently his favorite dress-up doll, his jaw hits the floor. Because Peter is wearing _nothing_ but that clear PVC raincoat.

“How do I look?” Peter asks, his arms crossing over his chest, as he leans in the bathroom doorway, waiting for something, anything. Because he’s been in love with this man for more than three years, and he is not going to let him ignore this anymore.

Tony’s mouth closes, and opens again. He doesn’t seem to remember how to speak, let alone answer a question. Finally, he manages “FRIDAY, please turn off the security feed for my office and erase any footage of the last fifteen minutes.”

Peter scoffs. Always so careful. He guesses that’s the problem. “What do you think? Am I the height of fashion?” He asks, because he’s nervous as fuck and he’s still not exactly certain he hasn’t dreamed the last week.

“You little shit.” Tony says, closing in on him like he’s been chasing. Like he’s been the one pining for years, waiting, hoping, but never really believing this could happen. Peter sucks in a breath. But before he even has a chance to let it out, the man is pressing him into the wall, and his tongue is splitting his lips in a hungry kiss.

He’s never had a kiss like this before.

He presses into it, clinging to Tony, his hands flying up to grip his shoulders. He’s been waiting for this. The stubble ripping at his chin, the hard chest pressing him into the wall. He’s not prepared for the way that tongue works him, those teeth tug at him. The man’s kissing him like he’s been starving for it, and that tells him all he needs to know about whether Tony Stark really wants this.

“I was _trying_ —” Tony starts, breathing against his lips in a half-rage. “—to go _slow_. To keep you _safe_. So that you _didn’t_ have to get my fucking insanity all at once. But, you know? You know what you are?”

“Really fucking horny for you, Mr. Stark?” Peter breathed, leaning up, his body pressing into Tony’s, the PVC warbling between them.

“A _Brat._ ” Tony stated, his hand fisting in Peter’s hair, hard enough to make his knees buckle. “A spoiled fucking Brat.”

He kissed him again, and it was searing, the kind of kiss that Peter didn’t think existed outside of Aunt May’s tawdry paperbacks. He fell into it, his hands wandering over Tony’s chest and sides and hips, tugging him in by the beltloops of his fucking expensive jeans.

 

\--

 

Which brings us to where Peter never thought he would wind up.

Ass spread and lubed with lube apparently kept on hand in the powder room, Tony’s cock breaking him apart stroke by stroke, that hand striking him in the most pleasurable of punishments. He cried out, and Tony took him harder, his body shaking as the older man growled _“Say it”_ into his ear.

He could do nothing but comply.

“Yours…” He panted, arching up beneath him and letting that cock impale him. “All yours, all—all of me is yours, Tony, please-!”

The PVC was flipped up, and his ass was exposed to the world. His hands were gripping glass, and he was left with a view of the rain falling on the city and Tony’s reflection in a cloudy sky. He was breathless. The way Tony was taking him, he felt like he would never stop feeling it. That hand came back down on his ass, and this time it gripped him hard, making his cock _jerk_.

“This ass is mine.” Tony breathed, his lips falling to Peter’s neck, then lower to his PVC-covered shoulder. “You’re all mine. You gorgeous fucking Brat.”

He bit down into the PVC, and Peter whined, wanting that bite for himself, for his skin. Wanting to be claimed that way, as much as all other ways. But he could feel Tony trembling. He could hear his breath quicken, feel his cock rigid inside.

“ _Yours_ ,” Peter gasped, rocking back on him. “Your Brat. Please, Tony, please-!”

Tony chokes.

He comes. Hard. Peter can feel him shaking, can feel his body nearly give way. He hears him groan against his neck, rutting through his orgasm into Peter’s body, letting everything in him go lax and perfect and dreamy.

“… Fuck.” Tony choked, holding Peter close against his chest and kissing his neck, all the way up to his ear.

“Yep. As many times as you like.” Peter quipped, rolling his hips back against him, making him groan.

“Menace.” He accused him, slowly pulling out, making Peter let out a cry. “I know, I know, I’m sorry. Let me get the condom off.”

Breathing out a sigh, Peter clung to the desk for a long moment, listening to the rain pouring, and to Tony’s movements about the office. God, that was good. Better than he’d ever thought.

“C’mere.” Tony said, wrapping his arms around him and guiding him to his desk chair, where he deposited him very gingerly. “You alright, Parker?”

Peter gave him a huge, very self-satisfied grin. “Oh definitely. I’m fantastic. Hard as a rock, but fantastic.”

Tony grinned back, and his face was absolutely devilish. “Well, let’s just see what we can do about that.” He said, spreading the folds of that PVC coat, slowly unwrapping him.

Peter shifted, spreading his legs and resting back in the desk chair, feeling like an absolute prince. His ass ached, but it was a pleasant ache—one that served to remind him that what had just occurred wasn’t a dream.

Then Tony kissed him again, and his mind kind of swirled out, because there was nothing quite like being kissed by this man.

Whatever he wore, it didn’t even come close.


End file.
